Story I: Meeting Stephanie
They say that winter in the city can be a miserable affair. Expressions change. Faces become grim, stuffed down into the collars of their overcoats. No one celebrates their body in winter. They celebrate resistance, if grim survival can be made celebratory. But that’s why I’ve come now and not then. Even in the city the air smells like flowers. Chestnut blossoms dust the pavement and the girls who walk over them move like willows, their short, loose skirts whispering over their buttocks and fluttering about their soft, strong thighs. In the afternoon heat, from my shaded seat outside the café, I notice the girls are not annoyed when I look.
They have not dressed to be plain and they expect to be noticed. I notice them go by without lechery in my eyes. They won’t know the secret heat of my maleness as the singly sentient member tightens both itself and the fabric of my jeans. And so they smile sweetly back at me as I smile sweetly at them. They cannot know how the heat of the day and the delight l that I find in the mystery of their beings fills me with a lust that needs to be celebrated just as roundly as the winter’s defeat. Or perhaps they do. Perhaps they are aching deliriously to celebrate the heat, and the sun, and freedom of unclothed bodies and warm skin. Perhaps it’s all a game—all of us tucking in and restraining our panting heat until we can’t take it anymore. And all the while the heavy heat in between the walls of the city taunts us, moistens us, draws us out.
Having put my gaze back down again briefly into my magazine, I was startled to see her making her way toward me, where a few seconds ago the footpath had been empty. Her long, dark hair fell in waves down over her shoulders. The creamy, honey-tinted flesh of her slightly over-prominent breasts rose out of the low-cut valley of her diaphanous sleeveless blouse. Her breasts swayed and bounced in time with every step, every bend of smooth knees, and every sure footfall. Her pretty short skirt swayed in a counter-rhythm to the swaying of her breasts and the soft exchange of her thighs. She looked down at her breasts for a moment, as girls will do when they walk in light clothes, to see if their motion was unseemly. The motion was far from unseemly. I found her beautiful. And so her own research must have found also, for she continued to walk with the same easy, merry, unhurried gait which caused her contours to wiggle seductively.
In another few steps my gaze met hers and she smiled at me. I smiled back as she drew closer and then parallel to my chair, preparing to pass me forever and glide on through the baking city. But as she drew alongside me, a strap from her shoulder bag caught the faux-wicker backing of my chair. She let out a small cry of surprise as the bag was jerked suddenly from her shoulder and into my world. The bag became amorphous as it tumbled from her control. It fell to the ground, expelling a phone, some lipstick, a book by Isabelle Allande, and mascara.
I leapt quickly out of my seat and knelt down to help her recover her items. Her brief shock gave way to an expression of wry embarrassment, as if she found the whole thing funny, which it was, but she was still aware that she might be just a fraction less cool than she was a short while ago. But for the sun and the heat and the ardour of the city in summer, neither of us minded at all. She knelt too and began to scramble for her belongings. Her skirt rode up high on her legs as she did so. Though she made a vague attempt at modesty, I saw that her thighs were strong and smooth. So smooth, in fact, that they gleamed in the afternoon sun.
She had collected her things and prepared to move along. I nearly waved her goodbye but stopped and asked if she’d have a drink with me. She looked almost relieved, as if suddenly realising the effect of the heat and that it might be nice to be off her feet. For two people who’d never met before, we chatted comfortably. She from outside the city, but that only served to give her natural tongue a softening lilt. Our chance meeting had led us on to ice-cream around the corner from the museum, then to coffee in the shade of the acacias on the piazza and, as the day drew on, to chilled white wine just off the waterfront. The day had unfolded and wrapped around us so easily that she had not even asked if I’d like to see where she lived. So now just as easily, or so it felt, she was leading me up the stairs to her apartment.
We had been sprawled out across the cool linen bed looking at pictures when she’d suddenly drawn herself close to me and kissed me deeply. As she pressed herself flush against me, her skin smelled fresh and pure. She was hot and golden, as if she hadn’t only walked in the sun, but bathed deeply in its rays.
She rose from the bed and, before the open window, loosened the buttons on her blouse and shrugged it casually, fluidly off her shoulders. She unclasped her bra from the front and peeled the low, broad cups away from her like a protective skin off two ripe fruits. Her breasts were heavy and globular, moving with even the most diminutive movements of her arms, shoulders, and torso. I was surprised to see she had no tan lines and the honey-gold of her cleavage coloured her ripe breasts, delicate shoulders and tapered torso all the same rich shade. She stepped out of her skirt and let it slide down her legs to the floor as easily as she might have stepped out of her heavy winter overcoat six months earlier. Her little white panties made an apex at the meeting place of her long, golden legs. She stood wearing a little cotton thong, the gusset of which conformed readily to the pouting mound of her vulva.
“You’ve caught the sun, this summer,” I told her.
“When there is sun, I do not hide my body from it.”
It was a good philosophy and spoken in her accent it made me smile.
In no time at all she’d pulled the elastic of her thong away from her hips and slid the slinky material down to the floor. Her cunt was plump and neatly trimmed with the dark down making a sparse velvet covering. The slit of her entrance smiled sidelong at me as she swayed across the floor. She sat down cross-legged on the bed and looked into my face, silently asking what we should do now. Without another word, I stood and began to remove my shirt a little too clumsily. With more fluid motions, she unclasped my trousers and removed them from me.
We stretched out on the bed and she covered me with her body. Her weight was deliciously light and heavy at the same time. She smothered me with her honey-brown warmth and kissed me hard. I responded with a probing tongue and a stiffening cock as our hands explored each other.
Soon she broke away her mouth from mine and worked her way down my body. She suckled my balls teasingly. First cupping them in her hand or flicking her tongue over the seam before wrapping her lips entirely around one and then the other of my testicles. All the while playing her fingers and palms along my cock-shaft so that it’s stiffness was way beyond my control. She held her ass high in the air, swaying, finding a rhythm to her handy work. Then—my cock was in her mouth—her lips pushing down on the foreskin—her fingers sliding up the shaft—her minnow tongue sweeping over my cock-head, like she was eating a mound of ice cream. Or she’d flick her tongue over the slit in the bulbous helmet before taking it to the back of her throat, sending chills of delight right through me. With the intuition of a geisha, she rolled her tongue over the most tender, sensitive parts of my glans, making me buck suddenly. Every now and again, when I was not wracked with pleasure, I would look down and see her big, dark eyes gazing up at me playfully over her lips stretched wide by my bulging organ. She was beautiful like that. She made us beautiful.
She dipped her lips, tongue and throat one last time, nearly engulfing my entire length, down to where the hard cylinder met the soft cushion of my balls. With agonising lethargy she drew her lips tight around my penis and, with a strong suction, siphoned herself off my length from base to tip.
She clamoured up my body and straddled me with her strong, golden thighs. I smiled at her through my expression of delirium. She knew what skilled she possessed.
“I’m wet from sucking you,” she admitted.
“And my cock is very hard from you sucking me,” I told her, and she laughed at my observation of the obvious.
She raised herself up on her knees, took my cock in her hand, raised it and pointed it into herself. I found it amazing how she guided my throbbing prick directly to her entrance. Sometimes, when I must place myself inside a woman, I probe and bump gently, unsure when and how my blunt, round end will find that honeyed cavern. But she knew and loved her body so well that she led me easily inside. Her pink pussy only needed to touch the head of my prick before it was glistening and slick. She gasped—I think we both did—briefly, as she lowered herself onto me and my bulb spread her deeper pink petals. In the next motion she thrust herself down violently and took all of me into her depth. Her pussy contained me as she threw herself onto my cock again and again. Gulping—slurping—slushing—rippling around my cock.
Her pussy was so wonderfully greedy, so voracious that it was audible. Her dark-lashed eyes were downcast and her lips pursed as if in reverie as she concentrated on every electrode of pleasure firing from her epicentre. I found her rhythm and thrust upward into her, first holding her by her hips then placing my palms over the smooth ellipse of her belly. From below her, I watched the smooth under-globes of her breasts bounce and jiggle as she rode on and on.
She leant forward to press her fruit-sweet mouth against mine. Her warm breasts lowered onto me, softly first, until at last she pressed them full against me, warming my own heart with hers. As she kissed me, her hair fell about my face and I breathed in the soft, sweet fruit scent that enveloped me. Our scents mingled and the smell of hot, sweet fucking surrounded us. We rode on for a while, every stroke seeming to encourage her to yield up more of her honey.
At last I put my arms around her, held her close, and rolled us both over so that her legs were still astride, her pussy still deeply demanding. But now I knelt looking down on her. She smiled at the role reversal and snuggled down more securely onto my cock. She reached down to stoke my short pubic hair; then to feel what her womanhood was doing to my cock; then to feel what my cock was doing to her, as if to feel through her hands and her pussy an emblem of the pleasure that we made. Her pussy puffed and pouted under her hand as she trilled her fingers around and over her clitoris. I put one hand behind each of her knees and scooped up her legs so that they rested over my shoulders. Without any sort of apprehension, she drew back her own thighs, bringing her knees almost in line with her head. She was giving herself to me fully, opening herself to me, needing me to give her all that I had. The motion threw her ass and her pussy into the air. I sank so hard and so deep into her soft offering that her lovely round ass bounced up and down off the mattress.
With every stroke, our trust of one another grew and we sacrificed ourselves to each other for a long time. I withdrew my meat from her fully, slippery with the nectar. The sight of her—so totally naked, panting and open before me—that alone could have made me cum. I breathed deep for a moment to regain some semblance of control. She looked at me expectantly and I, perhaps a little too roughly, flipped her over onto her belly. She was not put out by my roughness. On the contrary, she let out a little yelp of delight and surprise as she turned over and wriggled her legs apart.
Here she had a more delicate tan line from a thong bikini. The same abandon with which she’d bared her breasts to the sun had not uncovered her nether parts. Her back was strong and supple with little dimples and valley adjoining the musculature of her spine. Her little back was firm and strong but swept into the broad arches of her buttocks in a celebration of fleshy supplication. By now I had already spread her buttocks and seen the sheen that her own errant juices had made down the length of her crevice. The pretty, puckered pink star of her anus seemed, from here, to be as malleable as her pussy. I worked the slick juices gently around her tight opening and the flesh there spasmed delicately in response. But I did not touch her there much longer. Instead, I had turned my attention lower to her newly empty pussy, pouting out less than an inch below her little asshole. My cock had been quivering and throbbing and had felt like I had not only wanted to be back inside her—but needed to be, with what felt like terminal necessity. Gratefully I sank my rampant prick back into her.
I had tried to slow down the rhythm but from her position, which I had thought to be so yielding, she controlled me. I stopped my strokes altogether but as I did I heard her moan loudly and I felt the whole length of her pussy tunnel begin to pulse and ripple. I shouted out in surprise as her whole body began to shake and she gritted her teeth I begged her to stop. I begged her not to make me cum yet. But she ignored me as her own pleasure overtook her. She had the control and I felt the rushing, surging onslaught of impending orgasm. The rush rose so strongly that I knew and she knew that I would not fight it….could not fight it. Resigned to my sticky fate, I pumped a few hard, final strokes that took me to the brink of sanity. My head and my cock exploded as one—my head spewing delirious expletives, and my cock spewing stream after stream of hot jism. My cum spurted onto her skin, splashing across her smooth ass, dribbling into the little valleys of tender muscles that worked the small of her back. She cried out in enthusiastic appreciation of what we had brought forth as my semen met her flesh.
As the waves of pleasure subsided, and our laboured breaths began to settle, she rolled over and smiled at me. There was delicate sheen of perspiration around her temples. She extended her arms to me and drew me to her breast. And there we lay, enraptured in each other’s arms, until it grew dark.
For more stories like this one see Sweetmeats
